


—And What Remains?

by orphan_account



Series: A Basketful of First-Times [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Sexual Situations, Breaking Celibacy Vows, Celibacy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fictional Religion & Theology, First Kiss, First Time, Forbidden Love, Force Bond (Star Wars), Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Jedi Code (Star Wars), Love, M/M, Making Love, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Medical Experimentation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Prompt Fic, Sexual Repression, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24119674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Haunted with the memories of his captivity by Jenna Zan Arbor--a rogue scientist determined to discover and exploit the "secret" of a Jedi's connection to the Force--Qui-Gon proposes to the Council that some sort of training be implemented for Padawans and younglings: a controlled, temporary disconnection from the Force, from all that a Jedi is. Their enemies are already working in the shadows, fervently, to make it so . . . And a Jedi destroyed by the loss of the strength that's not his own is a liability at best.The Council reluctantly agrees, on the condition that Obi-Wan is the first Padawan on whom the drug is tested.Strange and terrible things happen, when all that remains is crude matter.Or: "Take the greatest Jedi Knight, strip away the Force, and what remains? They rely on it, depend on it, more than they know. Watch as one tries to hold a blaster, as they try to hold a lightsaber, and you will see nothing more than a woman, or a man. A child."
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: A Basketful of First-Times [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876582
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26
Collections: Master Apprentice Archive





	—And What Remains?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I mentioned to the wonderful [Marli_Toled0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marli_Toled0) that I wanted to write them a little gift-fic in thanks for their kindness and support. They gave me the following parameters: a situation wherein Qui-Gon is trying to teach Obi-Wan something difficult, that requires a lot of patience, perseverance and trust; the end (and Obi-Wan's success) entails not only feelings of love but also whatever an acceptable amount of pride might be . . . for a Jedi.
> 
> (Marli, I’m so sorry this took so ridiculously long . . . I was making fantastic progress and coming up with ideas on top of ideas while at work--but whenever I got home, all I ended up doing was slouching happily at my desk listening to Elton John and wishing that Freddie Mercury was still alive. Forgive me my tardiness, and I do hope this is something you enjoy. <3)
> 
> Otherwise, the events in this story reference an arc from the _Jedi Apprentice_ books, but it's a loose interpretation at best because I'm rusty on the details, so you don't need to be familiar with it.
> 
> The main inspiration, really, came from the quote used in the summary: lines delivered by none other than Kreia from _Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords_. Her greatest admiration is for one who can "turn away from strength that is not their own"--i.e. a Jedi who chooses to turn away not merely from the Order, but from the Force itself.
> 
> Interestingly, she and Qui-Gon have basically the same understanding of the Force (and arguably the Jedi Code as well)--but polar opposite reactions. I think that's part of why I love her character so much. She's what would happen if you were to incarnate Nietzsche into the Star Wars universe. (And I like Nietzsche quite a bit, so . . . )
> 
> Anyway, that's pretty much that. :P Apologies in advance for any lingering typos.
> 
> Comments are ever and always welcome; thank you so much for reading, and I do hope you enjoy! <3

_“You believe we should train our Padawans, our younglings, in how to defend themselves without the Force?” Mace Windu’s eyes are dark and troubled, peering out at Qui-Gon through little more than a half-cracked gaze. “Explain your reasoning, Qui-Gon. What is there in the galaxy that could_ possibly _separate us from the Force?”_

_“Legends speak of Jedi Masters able to do such a terrible thing,” Qui-Gon answers slowly, “though thankfully that ability has been lost . . . At least to us. Perhaps it’s not lost to the Sith.”_

_“Hm. Forgotten, we have not, your capture by Jenna Zan Arbor.” Master Yoda runs his claws over the polished wood of his gimer stick. “Only a scientist she was, and much harm she caused. Others like her, are there? More skill have they, perhaps?”_

_Qui-Gon considers his answer carefully. “I believe . . . there could be scientists who wish to exploit our connection—for their personal gain, in power or profit. It would benefit many to cut all Jedi from the Force. What are we without it?”_

_“The Sith have been extinct for a millennium.” Ki-Adi Mundi steeples his fingers against his pursed lips, and the gesture betrays his otherwise well-shielded uncertainty. “But what you say otherwise . . . Unfortunately greed is a temptation for many beings. It’s not unreasonable to assume some high-paying organization might . . . commission . . . such an effort.”_

_“So what do you suggest?” Mace holds out his hands, palm up. “Suppose the Council agrees with you. How do we practically . . . implement . . . this training?”_

_“We have scientists of our own, with more knowledge of the Force, of midichlorians, than any being in the galaxy.” Qui-Gon suppresses a shudder, remembering the needles, the phials, the blood that Jenna Zan Arbor had leeched from him—all in futile, childish pursuit of something she would never understand. “We set this task to them.”_

_“And when the time comes to test the results of this . . . experiment?” Adi Gallia tilts her head, her delicate features burnished by the setting Coruscanti sun. “Who would volunteer?”_

_“I would. I know what it feels like.”_

_“Ah—but you wish to use it to train Padawans. Who then?” Qui-Gon is grateful to note that her voice is not unkind, her features not unsympathetic. But the final words lodge somewhere unsettling, deep within his gut._

_Who then?_

* * *

“I will be alright, Master.”

Qui-Gon’s hands have been steady while he prepared the drugs—but as he watches Obi-Wan roll up the sleeve of his tunic, exposing the crook of one arm that the Healer might draw the needed sample, he finds that the precious phial trembles dangerously within his grasp.

Blood blossoms watered-red; it takes no time, no more than the flick of a wrist and the blink of an eye, for the mixed solution to become an agent of misery. The syringe is capped and the needle flashes bright and Qui-Gon finds himself swallowing sudden-welled panic.

He still thinks, hypothetically, that this is a good idea. A defenseless Jedi, paralyzed by the loss of all they are, becomes at best an easy target and at worst a liability. What better recourse against such a possibility than to prepare the future generations for it _here_ , within the safety of the Temple?

And yet—

Obi-Wan’s eyes are bright and clear; his face, however—still so boyish, somehow, although he’s set foot within his twenties—is somber and still: no hint of a well-worn cheeky smile now. He knows how much this means to Qui-Gon. Little can he know of how much it will mean for himself.

Even when the drugs had been perfected and Qui-Gon, true to his word, had tested it upon himself, he’d been sure that this was right.

But Qui-Gon now finds himself no longer sure. Not anymore. Not with Obi-Wan, whose gaze never leaves his own as he half-wriggles from his tunic, exposing a shoulder to the Healer. As the needle flashes bright and buries itself in the flesh.

“I’ll be alright.”

Again the reassurance, so solemnly dripped from Obi-Wan’s tongue. Self-confidence without hubris or grandiosity. Just quiet, steady certitude . . . from the young man who knows nothing of the days that are to come.

Qui-Gon’s throat is dry. Almost desperately he reaches for the bond, for the pale-blue light, the broken-dawn glow of his Padawan: cradling him, holding him, clutching to his presence when of course there can be no such atrocious display of the flesh. It’s not as if the young man’s leaving him, or dead, or become a stranger, or that the bond is broken . . .

But it may as well be so.

* * *

Ever since Qui-Gon nearly died at the hands of Jenna Zan Arbor, Obi-Wan has wondered, with a kind of macabre curiosity, what it would be like to suddenly find oneself without the Force. In his youth and naivety he had originally thought it would be no different—though no less traumatic—as losing a sense. To wake one morning and see nothing, not even darkness. To no longer hear the traffic of Coruscant or his Master’s physical voice. To no longer taste a berry tart upon his tongue. Perhaps, even, to lose touch—to no longer feel Bant’s arms wrapped around him, all carapace and cartilage and subtle strength.

What shallow thoughts those were, and yet he’s clung to them in the months leading up to—

He’d hated it when Qui-Gon volunteered himself foremost, although he understood the reasons why. During those few hours reaching for the bond had yielded nothing. There was no presence, no warmth, no quiet words. Utter silence that left him feeling so terribly alone.

He couldn’t stand it, and so he’d surrounded himself with the growing-things and life and laughing waters of the Room of a Thousand Fountains: with Bant’s quiet silver eyes and chimed laughter. Next to Qui-Gon and the Code, she was the truest thing he knew.

But Qui-Gon, of course, had returned, and the bond was flooded with relief and Light and something suspiciously like love—his Master had even gone so far, in private, as to briefly wrap Obi-Wan up in his arms: not so much to comfort his Padawan, Obi-Wan realized, as to reassure himself: he’d been trembling and residual fear had leeched across the Force: what if the antidote hadn’t worked? What if he’d been forever . . . lost?

In that moment, Qui-Gon had been nothing but a man. Not a Jedi. Just a man whose life, by some miracle, had been given back to him.

And now—

The prick of the needle, the watered-sanguine solution that will silence the midichlorians stinging through his veins: up his arm, seeping to the crown of his head and down across his chest, trickling down his legs and tingling his toes. Perhaps most insidious of all is that, after a moment, it doesn’t feel entirely unpleasant: a warmth seems to wrap itself around him—as if the chemical shroud of a sedative—or perhaps what most beings feel when drunk?—and Qui-Gon’s there, so bright and clear and quiet through the Force: his Master, the man he loves from behind a fiercely-shielded heart. He sways where he sits on the table, and Qui-Gon’s there to steady him, and then—

Emptiness. Silence.

Obi-Wan draws a breath, slowly, inhaling the sudden ricocheting fear that threatens to overwhelm him, holding it close with closed eyes before exhaling, a tremulous measure, as if hoping to release the fear. As if it will not inevitably follow him. As if letting go of it forever.

Qui-Gon takes his hand, and there’s such tenderness within the gesture that the Healer turns away: not so much in shame but as if to say she saw nothing.

* * *

Since they’ve left the Healers’ wing of the Temple, Obi-Wan’s found that he’s had to re-orient himself to a body that hardly feels his own: his awareness has become acutely and keenly whittled down to nothing more than the crude matter. The machinations of flesh and blood. His strength and weakness. Now the dull report of his bootsoles against the high-ceilinged chamber’s polished floor becomes a focal point, an echo, to the double-timed pounding of his heart.

The room where often he dueled with Bruck under Master Yoda’s tutelage; where more than once the other boy goaded him into forgetting himself and his training and fighting from a wellspring of wounded pride.

He watches, as if from a distance, while Qui-Gon shucks his boots and motions for him to slip from his robe. He blinks, and the room grows blurred at the edges. He swallows and there’s nothing and his throat feels tight and his stomach begins to churn over his breakfast.

“We will begin our training unarmed. When you can consistently dodge each of my attacks and land three strikes against me, we will move on to target practice with a blaster. Finally . . . ” Qui-Gon pauses a moment, as if feigning consideration when his mind’s well enough made up—a trick Obi-Wan knows well. “We will re-introduce your lightsaber. The Council wishes me to stop at the use of a blaster, but I would prefer you know how to use your weapon without cutting off a limb—most likely your own.”

“Yes, Master.” In truth, Obi-Wan had thought he would be given a day to readjust to this precarious reality, though he knows well enough not to say so. The hope, in retrospect, seems hopelessly naïve.

“Hm. You are afraid.”

Since entering the room, there’s been no warmth in his Master’s voice, no hint of the man who’d so gently taken his hand: the quiet knowledge of something terribly shared. Obi-Wan lifts his head, struggling to read something, anything, into that indigo gaze, into the splayed-foot stance, the broad shoulders loose, the arms relaxed. Qui-Gon is a mass of potential energy . . . unreadable, utterly. Unreachable, without the Force.

_Am I afraid?_

Perhaps—some instinctive thread within him twisting, worried that Qui-Gon is now as good as a stranger.

On barefoot-silent feet, Qui-Gon dances forward, hooking his toes behind Obi-Wan’s heel in a movement too quick for the eye to catch, for the brain to comprehend on aught but instinct. The young man stumbles, managing to quickstep his way around the swipe before a stiff-armed blow to the chest sends him sprawling. His elbows crack against the floor, the stone unforgiving against his buttocks and momentum-drummed heels. Pain, as with fear, had been something he could release into the Force, allow to pass through himself, let go . . . Now he has no choice but to settle himself down with it and _feel_ it, passively accepting it at best.

Dazed, he stares up at his Master, who crouches down, appraising him without a word before hauling him roughly to his feet. This is a man who is given a task he finds distasteful and is determined to see it through. Such a thing, perhaps, can be done only with distance . . .

“I can’t promise that you’ll feel no pain. But you have your training to fall back on. Your body has been taught these motions, many times before. It hasn’t forgotten.”

_But what is my body without the Force?_

Obi-Wan worries his lower lip a moment, adrenaline spiking through his veins and tautening his muscles: fear honed into anticipation, readying himself for the further pain he’s sure will come, despite Qui-Gon’s hollow reassurance. Everything he’s learned has been filtered through the lens of the Force. Without it—what is he but a body? But a man?

The moment he’s taken to half-fathom the thought costs him dearly.

* * *

It’s been hours. The Coruscanti sun has long since set and soft glow-orbs whisper at the corners of the chamber. Qui-Gon inhales and the sour-stiff stench of sweat greets him, the radiated heat of their bodies, their tunics plastered to their skin. Obi-Wan doggedly finds his feet again, swaying, exhausted; he’s flushed and trembling, but his jaw is set and Qui-Gon knows too well the fire burning through those cerulean eyes.

 _He won’t let me see weakness,_ Qui-Gon muses. _He rarely has—but now?_

“That’s enough,” he offers finally. “We will try again tomorrow.”

And those words, those _foolish_ words slipped past his lips without thought, are sharper than the needle or the solution’s sting, stronger than the blows which have left his Padawan bruised and stiff. They cut to the heart of him, and Qui-Gon watches as Obi-Wan’s weary expression, so full of determination, slips into a mask of something he’s not seen in the young man since he was a boy—twelve years old and so full of thirst to prove himself, so keen to slough the skin of youth and clumsiness, that he slipped oftentimes enough into Darkness.

Pain and wounded pride feeding into anger, flaring crimson through the Force.

And Qui-Gon realizes that, beyond such base and basic observations, Obi-Wan’s unreachable. There is no recourse from those words, no soothing touch to send along the bond, no apology he could possibly give. What has this task the Council’s given wrought within himself, let alone his Padawan? Has he been so selfish as to distance himself because to see Obi-Wan suffering—by his hand and for his cause—rends him to the core? The thrust and twist of a blade?

“Obi-Wan, I didn’t—”

The words float along the silent surface stretched between them, directionless and meaningless without the bond. Obi-Wan retrieves his robe and limps from the chamber without a backward glance. Qui-Gon pads across the floor, cool against his barren feet, and begins to tug on his boots, staring at his hands, uncertain what to do. When Obi-Wan was a boy, a teenager, they often had moments such as this: fractures, uncertainties. But there had always been the bond, and the Force-given assurance that at the core of their relationship was something _good_.

_It’s only an experiment. We could end it any time, and I can report to the Council and say we made as much progress as we could. But they won’t accept that—nor will Obi-Wan. He won’t . . . he can’t . . . bear to let me down, or feel as if he’s disappointed me . . ._

To volunteer his Padawan as the second trialed recipient of the drug made logical sense: who better to test out the practicalities of Qui-Gon’s proposed training regimen than the Master’s own? The apprentice of the lone man among the current Jedi Knights who’d lived through such an ordeal?

But logic rings hollow now as Qui-Gon begins to comb the Temple for his Padawan. This was all a terrible mistake.

* * *

Two heaping plates balanced in one hand, Qui-Gon slips through the half-cracked door to their quarters. It’s long past the evening meal and the kitchen staff had scarcely bothered to hide their bemused expressions—but he’d pleaded, and they’d obliged without a lasting grudge. Word seemed to have carried around the Temple at the project—the experiment—however clandestine a secret they’d striven it to be—and somehow two extra berry tarts had found their way into the inner pocket of his robe. Qui-Gon has no illusions that his Padawan’s proclivity for sweets will mend the rift between them . . . but it’s something of a start. He hopes.

As he enters, Obi-Wan emerges from the ’fresher, just out of the sonic shower. In the sickly half-light of a single muted glow-orb in one corner, Qui-Gon can’t help but look away from the bruises blossomed across his Padawan’s skin.

Carefully he sets the plates on the narrow windowsill, picking up Obi-Wan’s robe from where he’s listlessly tossed it in a heap. How very unlike him—

Qui-Gon holds it out, a paltry offering, far more-so than the food, beseeching. The two most basic gestures one being might offer to another: _Let me feed you, let me cover your nakedness._

The robe is wrenched from his grasp; one of the plates plucked from the windowsill by a sulking hand. They eat in silence, and the food that Qui-Gon had so hoped would ease the tension tastes bitter.

The pain and frustration roiling from Obi-Wan are palpable: shivers, echoes, eddies ricocheting through the Force, all but slicing through him to the core. Qui-Gon realizes again the depths of this incongruity, this chasm cast between them: now they, like so many other beings, have nothing but words, but imperfect intentions, but feeble gestures and acts of flesh and blood by which to interact.

And whatever happens now, has happened yet, will cast a long shadow indeed.

* * *

“Master.”

Qui-Gon cracks open his eyes, peering through the semi-darkness, half-reaching through the Force for his Padawan’s energy before he remembers that to do so is indecent. Propping himself on one elbow, he’s startled to find Obi-Wan kneeling stiffly there beside his sleep-couch in a pose of supplication, head bowed and muscles trembling.

And even as he struggles not to feel it, to turn himself away, Obi-Wan’s fear begins to work its way into his consciousness: a reticent plea for help—but a plea nonetheless.

(He must assume nothing . . . How is it that he fumbles his way through this exchange, when he’s spoken with silken ease to war-torn generals and violent, embittered masses? Beings in the thrall of blood-spilled passion or ignorant lust? How can he struggle now for what to say to him—to Obi-Wan—his Padawan, his steadfast Light?)

“What is it, Obi-Wan?”

“‘There is no emotion; there is peace’ . . . Master, forgive me for my anger, for my arrogance . . . At first I thought, somehow, that my body might obey me as it always did, as if anything I did was my own strength, not the will of the Force running through me. I expected perfection without effort—for my fears to disappear—and when that wasn’t so, I . . . ” Obi-Wan glances up, having hardly paused for breath, and the expression on his face leaves Qui-Gon’s throat too tight to coax out words.

“Master . . . I’m afraid.”

After the monotonous confession, those three words strung in such quiet desperation—

Impulsively Qui-Gon grasps Obi-Wan’s hands in both his own; touch, it seems, might be the closest thing they have to the bond, to something intuitive, unspoken. And even as his tongue sticks to his teeth and words have caused naught but sorrow between the two of them today, words come pouring out, gathered there and given depth in the warmth of his palms as he traces Obi-Wan’s knuckles, all to still the shaking.

“The Force is with you _always_ , Obi-Wan. Focus on my touch—my hands—we’re vessels, you and I, vessels of the light—just close your eyes and breathe— Can you feel it, still, my Padawan? It’s here—I’m here . . .

“You asked forgiveness; you need none. Forgive me for how I treated you today. The Council wanted you to train with Mace, they thought you knew me far too well, they thought you needed to face someone unfamiliar, someone who could turn his own Dark emotions into Light, who could use your certain fear, your anger—whatever arose—could use it against you—as would a Sith. I tried to be not a Sith but something you didn’t know—some stranger—something painful. Would that I’d known how much it hurt us both, my foolishness, _my_ arrogance . . . to think I knew . . .

“I was a fool today, running from my own pain. Seeing you suffer as I’ve suffered—Obi-Wan—Padawan—forgive me.”

“Master—”

Qui-Gon draws a breath, draws the Force about him like the robe tossed so carelessly at the foot of his sleep-couch: but despite the Light, despite the echoes of Obi-Wan’s pale blue, broken-dawn radiance—ah, still he shivers, curled within himself, ashamed: ashamed at his weakness, ashamed that he, the Master, falls to pieces here before his Padawan. That even with the Force to bolster him, it’s Obi-Wan who slips his hands free, caressing Qui-Gon’s softly: Obi-Wan, with glitter-bright cerulean eyes; with a wry, mirthless smile twitching at his lips.

“You did what you thought was best—and what the Council wanted,” the young man murmurs finally. “And I reacted badly. I only saw what I . . . didn’t want to see. What wasn’t even there. But what frightened me so much . . . what I was so _sure_ . . . ”

“What was it you feared, my Padawan?”

“Losing you. And disappointing you.”

“Hm.”

They sit in silence for a moment, each falling into the rhythm of the other’s breath. Qui-Gon extricates his hands and lets them wander, tracing faint-fingertipped paths along Obi-Wan’s arms, up across his shoulders, kneading quietly at knotted flesh, skirting the blotted lakes of bruises that will bloom far uglier come the morning light.

He drops his head without thinking, some impulse coursing through him, Force-borne and born of the Light—and quietly makes as if to press his lips to his Padawan’s brow.

Just as Obi-Wan lifts his head to speak, to whisper another hoarse and coarse apology that he needn’t give. The fear, the uncertainty, have unraveled him and laid bare hurts that Qui-Gon had thought a decade healed. Perhaps that’s why he’d wanted to lean close, to draw the young man nearer, to give a chaste offering, the half-kindling of something—ah—something that had hoped-for-been but never—

“Forgive me”— “It’s alright”—

Such hollow things are swallowed and smothered in the kiss, the quivered-brushing longed-for thing that they could never speak of, have given no more than dream-smeared, cock-eyed glances. The words fall into the depths, into the Darkness: they mean so little, less than nothing: let them soften and lose form and become Obi-Wan’s whimper and the quaking exhalation that Qui-Gon forces through his nose, some measured breath, some steadiness as his Padawan’s hands convulsively clench against the corded muscles of the Master’s thighs and all is _quickening_.

* * *

Everything hurts. Everything is stiff. But there is nothing in his ragged muscles or bruise-bloomed skin to compare to the charge that Qui-Gon’s lips leaves wrenching through him, straight to the core of his being. The spark-struck blood, the weeping cock that draws his hips and drives him forward, tearing loose a mewling, drawn out cry—as if from grief—when Qui-Gon pulls away.

It’s a terrible thing, to look then upon his Master and feel nothing through the Force; more terrible even than when he’d stared up from the cold stone floor after being thrown again and seeing the silhouette of a stranger in the dying Coruscanti sun. To look now and see naught but a man, but flesh and blood, and to feel nothing but the calls of his own need—so long self-decried—be echoed; he reaches now and finds no answers given. There are none, in this. In what they cannot speak of, cannot do, but for these rationed measures that threaten rationality, that threaten oaths and Code.

_The Force is with us, always. It is within me, even if I cannot feel the Light . . ._

He is used to washing himself in the Light, in the waters, scouring away the desire.

But now there are no waters, no Light: nothing but the bawdry song of his body and the precum that drips viscous trails across his thighs, as he shifts and tries to find some arrangement of his limbs, some measure of himself, that will ease the ache, that will settle and soften.

He dares not consider the shapes of the shadows, the plays of the vestiges of Coruscanti night, which tell him more than he could ever hope to know.

The curved-gentle swell of his Master’s stiffened cock.

And those indigo eyes meet his, that visage so familiar: the little furrows there, the creases, he could trace with his eyes closed are full of worry and sorrow. This is uncommon ground. And if the longing-cry that came from Obi-Wan sounded like a song of grief at their parting, Qui-Gon’s face is a mourner's mask.

* * *

Qui-Gon doesn’t know what to do. He can’t bear to send the young man back to his own sleep-couch, to the silence and the stillness and the gaudy semi-dark: alone to wrestle the spirit with the flesh.

But if he stays—

He catches a whisper of Obi-Wan’s light-within-the-Light, tendrilled, faint: beneath the shadows, beneath the pain and the burden of Qui-Gon’s own arrogant mistakes and Obi-Wan’s own fear, his Padawan has come not merely to seek absolution but . . . for this. Close-nearness- _warmth_ : some approximation of the bond, however faint and fragile. Delicate and somehow dangerous. Any step taken down the path of desire would destroy them.

Force knows he’s done enough.

But still, somehow, he finds himself gathering Obi-Wan into his bed, finds himself being held in taut-trembling arms, finds the cords of the Living Force flaring bright and fierce and burning, trussed about his cock—

And it’s more than that, it’s more than that, must be, or else it’s nothing but Darkness—

Obi-Wan is not—

“Just breathe, Padawan. It is only the impulse of the body . . . ”

Raw words meant more for himself, he knows, than the young man who shudders against him, gasping in the violent inner struggle: the call of a Jedi’s path and the pull of lonely, frightened, fragile flesh that has never known pleasure at his own hand—ah—that has constrained itself in Code and sacrifice.

And it’s not merely Obi-Wan who wants it.

Qui-Gon’s not so much a fool.

And he realizes with wonder, as his wayward thoughts regather, that very little has slipped his Padawan into exhausted, tortured sleep. Such little offerings but the warmth of his body, the softly-rumbled words . . . Even as the bruises darken and bloom; even as the young man’s muscles spasm; even as his cock twitches, hot, warm and velvet-hard and weeping there against the Master’s thigh. Even as Qui-Gon lies awake, eyes wide, aching and waiting in agony for the creeping dawn.

* * *

Despite the grueling punishment that had been the day before, Obi-Wan was paying attention. What strikes he cannot dodge he catches but the edges of, rolling and slipping sinuously through them, twisting the spaces between them as if he is water.

Qui-Gon manages a smile: fleeting but not gone before his Padawan takes notice.

* * *

He will never win against his Master’s strength or Force-gained speed. But the subtleties in how Qui-Gon moves have not eluded him, though Obi-Wan finds himself surprised at how much his subconscious memory retained, how his body reacts of its own volition.

Much has changed.

Whatever strangeness had passed between them in the night—all they said and could not say—Qui-Gon’s arms and the warmth of his body and all-forbidden-things for which the flesh still-and-always yearned—for the moment when Qui-Gon had let the mask of the Master, of the Jedi, slip—

He wouldn’t have all but volunteered his Padawan if he didn’t believe Obi-Wan to be capable—despite the faults that send wrenching, seismic shudders through the young man’s psyche sans the Force.

But trusting in Qui-Gon is nothing without trusting himself, and Obi-Wan mirrors the flickering half-smile so fleetingly slipped across his Master’s lips, willing his concentration back to the here-and-now. The dance becomes a blistering blur of strikes and woven, darting glances: soft and quiet and sure, no wasted motion, no wasted breath. Obi-Wan is water, flowing as smoothly and freely as once he did, coursing along the Force-carried current in his veins. It’s still there, he knows, but this moment—wholly of his own body, his flesh and blood and quicksilver-fired neurons, the charge and channeled adrenaline and wit—is his alone.

* * *

Drawn-out, weary days blur into uncanny nights. Bruises deepen, weaken, grow yellow and green. Fewer take their place. Qui-Gon’s hands come to know just where Obi-Wan’s muscles will knot. Obi-Wan comes to know more fully the subtleties of Qui-Gon’s moods, his eyes, the lines of his face, the curves of his flesh. He’d known them well before, of course—better than himself—but something about the silence sharpens them . . .

Obi-Wan settles into the rhythms of the body. Currents of hunger, thirst, fatigue had all been borne on the current of the Force: he’d felt them, embraced their antidotes—he’d always enjoyed his food and sleep—but now the currents are his own, are his alone. Full and rich and nuanced in a way he’d never known.

And night after night, Qui-Gon tries to fill the silence of the muted bond by clinging to the younger man. The kindled flesh, however desperate and foolish a temptation, becomes almost soothing. He dreams sometimes of Jenna Zan Arbor: of the absence of the Force: of the silence of his Padawan. Reaching, finding nothing—only to wake, and reach, and find nothing—but the warm counterweight of Obi-Wan’s body in his arms, his quiet breath, the familiar paths his Padawan’s fingers trace along his shoulders, kneading, soothing, whispering that all is well, it is well, it must be this way for all the greater good—he’d make no other choice.

* * *

Dazed, Qui-Gon blinks up at his opponent. The young man’s face, sweat-streaked and framed in slanted light and heavy shadows from the evening sun, is somber: he isn’t sure what he’d expected, but that cheeky, slow-spread smile would be welcome. Not as welcome, though, as this—how Obi-Wan had fed Qui-Gon’s speed and weight into wayward momentum, dancing through the strike intended for his chest, letting gravity and oh-so-briefly tangled limbs reshape it into something that threw his Master to the ground.

Slowly Qui-Gon grins, broad enough for both of them, and accepts the hand outheld to pull him to his feet.

_< Well done!>_

But too late—too late and he realizes he’s tossed the words, the swelling wave of triumph and pride, to the bond that isn’t there. Too late and he realizes that something’s stuck his tongue; why else would his first impulse be to do anything but speak his pride aloud?

He squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand, unable to meet the burning-bright eyes staring up at him with such expectation, and hopes the gesture is enough.

* * *

Darkness floods the chamber; obstacles loom darker than the shadows and the faint tresses of the windows thrown across the floor. All the light comes from the occasional shot fired from a blaster—his or Qui-Gon’s—illuminating them both so terribly briefly: a flicker of motion, no more. A hint at whatever might tangle his feet or give him cover as he crouches, struggling for rationed breath.

The blaster feels cold and alien—there’s something so terribly uncivilized about taking out an opponent from a distance, from shadows, as if you need not even see his face or form—what sacrilege—but his reflexes and coordination are sharp enough to scrape him through the exercise. Qui-Gon had wanted them to stop for the day as night began to deepen the windows, but Obi-Wan insisted, pushing through the fatigue, blinking stinging sweat from weary eyes.

He shouldn’t—but he wants this ordeal to be over and done.

* * *

The burns are superficial: patches of skin seared raw, singed hair, their clothing peppered with char—but nothing of more concern than a jar of bacta and a quiet hand.

Qui-Gon had leaned his head back, closed his eyes, some low-slung hum of what Obi-Wan could only call pleasure whispered from between pursed lips. The delicate lines of tension had faded from his Master’s brow, every muscle had relaxed—

And just as so many nights before, the touch, the nearness—Obi-Wan had glanced askance but hardly dared to look, to acquiesce his dignity for such profanity. Shadows weakened by watered neon light did not deceive him. Qui-Gon’s restive shifting, half-hitched breath, could mean so much—and so little.

He’d clenched his hand around the jar and shook his head when Qui-Gon offered—no—this he’d do himself—his Master’s touch would be more than he could bear. He has endured it—they both have—but something is different tonight, strung far too taut and terribly charged.

And now he sits cross-legged on the floor, carefully tracing a finger along the welt-like swatches left behind by the castrated bolts of blasters set to the training levels used for younglings. The sting of them has long since faded; the bacta’s cold and liquid-soft. He wishes only that something could be done for the rest of the body that betrays him. He’d hoped the floor, with its night-cooled stone, would help.

His gaze passes over his sleeping Master, there across the room: boots tucked at the foot of his sleep-couch, tunic and trousers and robe left in a tousled heap. Reflexively Obi-Wan glances at his own belongings, fastidiously folded, and grants himself a smile: sometimes Masters and Padawans are perfect echoes of each other. Sometimes they are mirrors, reflections, inversions . . .

And sometimes both, in snatches and smatterings, like a crystal turned to reflect the light and shadow with every turn.

So it seems now—has always been. But especially now.

He can’t shake the memories of Qui-Gon’s stiffened cock, or the sight struck fresh before him: that as his Master sleeps it lies there, full and oh-so-tightly furled, twitching, draped athwart his hips.

Obi-Wan sets the jar aside and wills himself to turn his back. He should not set eyes upon this, should not dare to dream that it is more than autonomic reflex—

But how had Qui-Gon kissed him, all those nights ago? How has he touched him since, with such gentle hands, to knead the knotted muscles and to soothe the smarting burns?

Without the bond, his Master cannot disappear into the brightness of the Force—or, perhaps, Obi-Wan cannot be so blinded by it—

His body grows tense, fatigued muscles quivering their protest, as the well-worn dull-aching _need_ pulls at his cock, beating, weeping. Yes, he should avert his gaze—but _oh_ —

How desperately he wants to kneel beside his Master, as he did before—but not in fear, not in wretched self-dejection. To have Qui-Gon wake and find him there and welcome him into his bed; to kiss him and to feel the larger man relax as he lets himself be held—

That. Not the waters of the Light, but _that_ —that is what will make him whole and cleansed of this desire. And this, too, took the absence of the Force to know . . . what a terrible thought. It can never be.

Slowly Obi-Wan exhales: a tremulous breath too loud in the silence but for his Master’s own.

Qui-Gon shifts and Obi-Wan’s gaze instinctively follows the motion: the planes of gaudy glare rippling across the flesh, lush and softened in lassitude but for his cock. It twitches once and then, with utter tenderness and quiet ease, cum spurts across his thigh in languid rivulets.

Peaceful. That’s how it always is with Qui-Gon—peace upon his body—such that even this, surely nothing more than unconscious release, seems as sacred as meditation or a prayer.

Would that Obi-Wan might know such peace.

Instead he sets his teeth, exhausted, tense beyond the breaking point of self-control and determined with every fiber of his being not to let the mounting heat consume him.

He’s shaking and shaking and he clenches his hands into fists and he will not—will not let himself sully the flesh, will not let himself be led by its desires—ah—and the shudders pass through him without end and he is still and _still_ and scarcely dares to breathe. His cock grows soft in time, at last, but the ache and haughty pretense of the orgasm he’s never known don’t really go away.

* * *

_Obi-Wan laughs, and the sound is like bells. It drifts through Qui-Gon’s consciousness, the whole of the young man’s body consuming his senses, the electric reactions of his own—such poignancy, the flesh and blood—the sharp-gasped pleas at Qui-Gon’s lips as his Padawan’s hand strokes the shaft of his cock and works the foreskin over the head with nimble fingers. Qui-Gon’s touch, in kind, is rough and uncertain and Obi-Wan’s hips buck into the coarse-palmed friction—_

_It feels as if their whole existence finds measure in the contrasts of this moment._

_And it occurs to him, however distantly, that he does not feel the currents of the Force—not merely Obi-Wan’s absence but wholly, oh, and somehow it doesn’t matter, doesn’t stir up the dread, doesn’t remind him of Jenna Zan Arbor at all because this song of theirs, this act between two bodies, two beings in love, is transcendent and holiness its own._

_As if they have never known the Force, or the Code, or found themselves wrapped in brown robes and vows. As if they are merely—merely?—men._

_Obi-Wan shifts, using his weight, the angle of his hips, to keep their cocks pressed together as the gentle rhythm begins to falter, to gather agonizing urgency; his lips are chapped and delicate and Qui-Gon welcomes him, welcomes this utter loss of_ self _—_

_Light and effervescent joy and ecstasy and heat and oh, and oh, and—_

“—oh!”

Qui-Gon wakes with a gasp. The sun is hot against his eyes, his skin, even so early in the morning; he wakes to his hips bucking in desperate phantom-echoed memory—the dream; he half-manages to swallow the grunt of disappointment as he somehow keeps himself from orgasm—

Almost.

He gathers at his fingertips the long-cooled cum strewn along his thigh, wondering at it with mild curiosity. He has never been a particularly libidinous man, although he finds the occasional release to be a sacred immersion in the living Force: though it comes at his own hand, he sees therein such primal life, the stark passions laid utterly bare . . . His own contribution to the song—if somewhat hollow, in its way: the solitary pleasure, when his heart and body both pull him so strongly towards his Padawan. Sometimes he thinks the Force does, too, in painful irony: the Light calling him to all the Light forbids—or, at least, the Code, and therefore all forbidden to the servants of the Light.

He lies supine and still, letting the sun warm him, waiting for the bodily memory of the dream to fade, waiting for his cock to soften, before making his way to the ’fresher and the sonic shower.

His wandering gaze finds purchase at last on the figure of his Padawan: clad in the shadowed side of their quarters, the lines of his body bespeak nothing short of war between spirit and flesh. The body revels in its rest, in its strength and fragility, healing its wounds, lingering in its longings; sleep strips away all masks, all pretenses . . .

Qui-Gon frowns, wondering how best to bring this up. Yesterday Obi-Wan had shown such promise, letting go of his reliance on the Force, accepting his own actions and judgments, whether instinctive or consciously planned . . . except for this.

He sleeps painfully corkscrewed, brow furrowed and fists clenched against the pillow. The young man’s head and heart, so full of worry and doubt and fear for his Master’s approval and fear of breaking the Code. But his hips, in turn, are soft, his legs loose and splayed wide, his cock hard and beating, beading precum, crystalline. Betraying truths he can neither speak nor, in good conscience, live. Or so Qui-Gon knows he’s utterly convinced himself . . .

Qui-Gon tears himself away at last, slipping from his sleep-couch on silent feet, making for the ’fresher. He shouldn’t linger long on such sights as this, though he finds himself glad of the thought that today will be the last—he hopes—of reaching for the bond and finding such a quiet and terrible absence.

* * *

The blaster had felt cold, aloof, malicious. Something with which to kill expediently— _efficiently_ —and Obi-Wan has serious misgivings about killing a man for efficiency’s sake. To kill another must be an act of mercy—something passing between them—some act of effort. Not a quick-fingered trigger-plucked flash of light and—

He realizes, as he unhooks the hilt from his belt, that he’d feared his lightsaber would be the same. That it would feel like nothing more than empty weaponry in his hands. A tool. No more. The crystal, the blade, the heart of a Jedi—all three intertwined and inextricable. True, he cannot feel them now . . . but the hilt feels like a living thing, nonetheless. Something willing and giving of itself, asking everything of him in return.

“Focus only on defense.” Qui-Gon ignites his blade, thumbing the power switch until the hum is hardly above a whisper: marks of contact, as with the blasters, will leave nothing more than mild burns. “Start in the opening stance of Soresu. Trust the same instincts as when we sparred hand-to-hand.”

“Yes, Master.”

Obi-Wan exhales, slowly; draws the next breath as a delicate trickle, gathering himself unto himself. He hasn’t seriously considered Soresu since he was a youngling—

“What are you doing?”

A stolen glance to the door finds Mace Windu edged in the soft-wooded frame, robe wrapped austerely about himself, his eyes shadowed and glowering. Hastily he turns his attention back to Qui-Gon, well enough expecting a rebuke, expecting the sting of that life-green blade against his skin—but Qui-Gon shakes his head, fastens his saber back onto his belt. Obi-Wan does likewise, and in tandem they turn to bow to the Master.

“What are you doing?”

Again the asking, low and smooth and sharp-edged.

Qui-Gon tilts his head, bemused; Obi-Wan studies him, hoping to understand how it is that he can look Mace Windu in the eyes. Few can, for long.

With deferent indifference such as only Qui-Gon seems capable: “What’s the good of his own weapon, if he does not know how to use it—with or without the Force? He’d be a danger to himself, to others, if he didn’t— Why do you think it’s taboo across the galaxy for any but a Jedi to lay hands upon our weapon?”

“Would he be a Jedi, then, without the Force?”

“What kind of question is that?” Gone, then, the casual ease with which his Master spoke: flint strikes sparks against tongue and teeth. “We are all of us Jedi, though it’s true that not all of us in the Temple are Knights. If you feel as you speak, Master Windu, then—”

“I said nothing of his not being a Knight.” Mace holds up a hand; tension spills across the room, heavy and stifling. The most esteemed member of the Council, second only to Grand Master Yoda, was already on edge—Obi-Wan can tell—and this unexpected clash of wills, Qui-Gon’s misplaced protection of his Padawan, has done little but unsettle him further. “What are the _Jedi_ —what are we _all_ —without the Force?”

“Even if we were not sensitive to the Force, the Order would survive. In a different form, of course, but—ah.” Qui-Gon catches the words, shakes his head, moves to place a hand atop Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Through his tunic he can feel the broad heat of it, the splayed, sturdy fingers, blossoming warmth throughout his muscles and bones . . .

“Why have you come here, Master Windu?”

“I happened to walk past and saw that you are recklessly endangering your Padawan. We have no idea how the drug is effecting him—it was never intended to remain in his system for so long. But here I see you engaging in training that the Council never sanctioned.”

“I knew the risks.” Obi-Wan steps forward, staring up into the face of the man to whom the Council would have entrusted him. He can’t imagine finding himself the target of this deep, dark eyes that can see within him all the Darkness—and the Light. “And I know that the Council had wanted you to be the one to train me. I’d want no one other than my Master. Qui-Gon’s put me in no danger. You can see I’m fine.”

“ _Are_ you, Padawan Kenobi? Do you know so? What can you feel without the Force? What can you _see_? Of what concern are your ‘wants’ to the Council? Your life—Qui-Gon’s—mine—is sacrifice. The will of the Force, the Council’s discretion. Attachments are forbidden.”

Qui-Gon’s tilted head has become a hand struck out at nothing, the façade of serenity cracked, as it only can be in such a place as this, as the Temple, where no other eyes can see. “This is nonsense. Mace, if the Council was concerned, they could step in any time; as yet they’ve not. Obi-Wan’s training is therefore still under my jurisdiction.” A moment’s pause, brief and glaring-bright. “Or have you forgotten that the Council is capable of errant judgement?”

“You’ve given us no report on his progress, and it’s been nearly a month. We need answers. Surely you should know enough by now.” Mace gestures them from the chamber, poised, aloof, shattering the tension and reshaping it into something utterly frigid, settling dread, like ice, in Obi-Wan’s gut. “Come.”

* * *

Qui-Gon gazes at Obi-Wan with pride. Let the Council see. Even as Mace Windu’s words, his warning, leave uneasy ripples in his mind—he doesn’t care.

He can’t imagine what it must be like to be in this chamber, ah, with these twelve venerable beings scrutinizing him, peppering him with questions. They are not unkind, not without compassion, but there is much at stake in what they’ve done. All of them. The intricacies and ethics of the experiment have not been lost on Qui-Gon—not entirely—but it becomes all the more apparent how controversial this entire undertaking’s been. He can feel it as a rift, tangible within the Force, between the Masters; the past month has done little but widen the first cracks of doubt.

And he realizes, as he speaks candidly about his Padawan’s progress—and clandestinely, too, that he might not betray his heart—that the reason he accepted Master Windu’s bait was because he was so terribly afraid that Mace was right. A month now seems far too long—and if something happens—

And attachments are forbidden.

The touch to his arm is feather-light and quickening—a whisper, nothing more—almost, perhaps, unseen. Qui-Gon draws a breath, continues on, the lilting basso rumble of his voice finding purchase and dancing echoes ’round the stone-floored, high-windowed room. The sooner the Council satisfies themselves, the sooner Obi-Wan will be given the antidote and the sooner this will all be done.

Force, let it be done.

* * *

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to know how the antidote works. The Healer had offered to explain it, and he suspects that Qui-Gon knows. He must, or else he’d never have asked this—

There’s someone’s blood in the phial, along with whatever serum holds the antidote, and something about that turns his stomach into knots. The needle flashes in the corner of his eye, then drops and shivers down to the crook of his arm, slivering to find a vein. This must be done more delicately than before—and so it always seems: it’s much harder to undo damage done.

Qui-Gon holds his hand—again—and this time the Healer does not turn away.

* * *

“It may take a few hours for you to start to feel—ah—back to normal.” The Healer offers Obi-Wan a smile. There’s something familiar in her careworn face, her bright green eyes. He frowns, trying to remember; anything to ease the knots of anticipation that tangle his stomach and leave the taste of his evening meal at the back of his tongue. When he was a youngling, he’d once hit his head and—

“ _Hours_?” The hand holding his own grows tense. “It didn’t take hours when—”

The Healer gathers the empty phial and motions towards the open door. “Nothing to worry about, Master. Everyone is different.”

“I . . . am not _worried_. I am concerned for my Padawan. If _—_ “

Short curls of laughter seep from the corners of her mouth, and then they become caught and spun into mirthless words as green eyes meet cerulean. “If nothing changes by tomorrow, come back and see us, Padawan Kenobi. But perhaps don’t bring your Master.”

Obi-Wan nods, the halfhearted jest falling on unwilling ears. Unspoken is the truth of it, the thing that Qui-Gon’s so afraid of, now that it’s said and done and forever out of his hands: if the antidote doesn’t work, the Healers, the scientists, won’t know what to do, or how to help. Or even if they can.

If and only if.

But he can’t help it—

He offers his Master a sly-edged, cheeky smile, the kind he knows Qui-Gon loves more than he’ll admit.

“I’ll be alright.”

* * *

“Padawan.”

Obi-Wan cracks open his eyes, peering through the semi-darkness, half-reaching through the Force for his Master’s energy before he remembers—

He’ll never forget. Even if tomorrow comes and there is still nothing but such deafening silence.

But there—soft and terribly faint—like a sound so quiet, bordering the edges of his perception, that he doesn’t know if he’s heard it or imagined—

Qui-Gon kneels beside his sleep-couch, head bowed in supplication. Tresses of unkempt hair, tangled with insomnia, cast wild shadows on his face. Obi-Wan props himself up on an elbow, silent. Much of the past month has been so.

“I am afraid.” The words are hoarse and low, as if Qui-Gon doesn’t realize he’s spoken them aloud.

“Don’t be.”

Obi-Wan swallows a smile, pursing his lips, before shifting over until there’s barely enough room for his Master—but room nonetheless. Sleep-couches in the Temple were never big enough for two: a final grace note of prudence: a slanted glance: unsettling, perhaps, if the young man considers it too closely.

It doesn’t matter, though—it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter . . . The thoughts form a rhythm and he finds himself absently rocking to it, ah, Qui-Gon growing so still and quiet in his arms, the shudders wracking him easing into eddies, easing into something like a steady breath. The wetness at his Master’s cheeks, though, lingers, and neither he nor Qui-Gon move to brush away the tears.

* * *

He breathes, and blinks, and the Coruscanti sun has yet to rise but oh, it’s _bright_.

Currents, emotions, sensations pour through him, running-reckless-reeling, such beautiful, sacrosanct, exquisitely-ordered chaos. Obi-Wan lies still for a moment, head pounding, stricken and weary, as if he never slept. But oh, it was deep and dark and dreamless—

Green: soft-edged, ebbing, seeking-quiet-aching: regret for all that’s done and all that isn’t—

The warmth of Qui-Gon’s body, the gently-pressing weight, soft skin and latticed scars and muscles lax in shallow sleep and the rhythms, oh, the heartbeat, the pulse, the inhalations that all find echo in Obi-Wan’s own. The matte-dried salt of tears. The play of light through Qui-Gon’s lashes. One leg half-slung across the younger man’s hips. Awareness, searing-sharp and utterly peaceful, of the thicket of hair at his Master’s groin, the morning-wrought stiffness of his cock.

Obi-Wan considers himself, considers his body and how the sum of his desires has been brought to this, just this precious, sacred moment, the Force drawing him nearer and nearer to some kind of rapture—ah—and he considers, too, their vows, the Code and they, themselves: the vessels of the Light. Both-and: two men of flesh and blood who’ve denied themselves, denied each other—all for a vow which has found physical reckoning in such a thing as this, as a bed too small for two.

The Force is laughing, and the laughter is catching, and it bubbles at his throat and he feels his Master begin to stir, to waken: that pure, pure Light and Coruscanti sun reflected in indigo eyes, oh, and that deep-rumbled echo, the answer, mirth pouring so tenderly from Qui-Gon’s lips, muffled, spilled around the edges of the kiss that Qui-Gon traces there against his forehead.

_< Master—>_

He tilts his head back and plunges his tongue between half-parted, bristle-bearded lips and he will drown, oh, the Force will swallow him, and what a fragile thing the crude matter is, fragile and tangible— _that_ will consume him, too—he must do this now, they must, oh, must reach and taste and touch and hold and whisper everything without saying a word.

They fumble awkwardly, the frame of the sleep-couch creaking—oh, the Temple walls are not thin but the stone has ears. Their energy will leave traces . . . here, now, what they do, what they so terribly, desperately need—

Facing one another, then, their hands finding patterns and purchase, cupping the sunlight, the planes of the flesh, the shadowed valleys, caressing, teasing with feather-light glances. Their eyes never wander; heavy-lidded gazes tangle, taut, eyelashes trembling with each gasping breath, each half-caught whimpered moan, each short, harsh, shaking exhalation—such finite things, when the truth is cast behind their eyes, the pleasure passed between them along the current of the bond, doubling and over, oh: every touch, every movement, every rolling thrust of their hips and those fleeting moments when their cocks or bodies brush together—oh—all of it has sacred echo in the Force.

Obi-Wan instinctively pulls his Master close, feels Qui-Gon half-wrap his thigh about his hips—heat and sweat and musk and need. He strokes those broad, scarred shoulders, rocking, oh, the rhythm, _oh_ , it’s this and always been, they’ve both known it for ages, it’s found itself in little things, acts of chastity and—

Qui-Gon’s massive body moves slowly—the embodiment of quiet, graceful intent—and Obi-Wan remembers the night he saw his Master cum in his sleep. He smiles, just before Qui-Gon’s lips find his, just before he feels a _surge_ in that beautiful form, oh, the body, oh, the Light.

The Light.

Dancing just behind his eyes, borne by the sacred root of him, his cock.

He wraps himself in Qui-Gon’s arms and feels the pounding of his Master’s heart and the _quickening_ and now they’re long past stifling their lovecries—

* * *

And Qui-Gon _reaches_ , the rush of pale-blue, broken-dawn-energy that his is Padawan, his Obi-Wan, that good, dear man—that glorious, quiet, steadfast light pouring itself over him, cleansing him of all the torment, the fear, the guilt. He _reaches_ , and the rhythm shatters and it’s _bright_ and beautiful and one can never look at such a thing too long. He _reaches_ , and it’s cum kept in spurted time to sacred song, yes, it’s so, the sacred and profane, and he _reaches_ and Obi-Wan answers and the Force—this, in this moment, is the Force—and together—

They are whisked away and cracked and shattered and they, the vessels, made anew and more beautifully so, for this, to hold the sacred waters.

—together in the Light.

**Author's Note:**

> [Markwatnae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/markwatnae/profile), I haven't forgotten! Your giftie-fic is up next! :)


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